A Deal for a Deal
by Burnsie at the Crossroads
Summary: 6 months later John Watson is still dealing with the loss of Sherlock. While out one night he meets a woman that says she can grant him one wish. However, this wish comes at a high price. Little does John know that Sherlock is still alive and will give anything to prevent the deal from going through.
1. 3 Months Later

**Disclaimer: I do not own either of these I just wish to pay tribute to 2 of my favorite shows.**

John Watson sat at the bar. Somehow he always found himself there. It had become a bad habit not that he really cared. He had stopped caring months ago. Biologically speaking, he might have been alive but it didn't feel like it. Not really.

It had been six months since Sherlock had met Moriarty on the rooftop of St. Bart's.

Six months since... well, he didn't really like to think about that. There was still a small part of him that hoped that this was all just one of Sherlock's mad schemes. That when he'd be least expecting it (and probably at the most inconvenient time) he'd get a text demanding his presence at 221B.

No text ever came and he was beginning to doubt they ever would. John finished his pint and ordered another. It was his fifth… or was it his sixth? Either way, it didn't matter.

He was lost too deep in thought to notice that a stool beside him had become occupied.

"You're looking awfully sullen for a Friday night." John turned to face the woman now sitting next to him.

"Look I'm sure you're a nice girl, but I'm not interested." It wasn't a complete lie, she _was_ gorgeous. Her hair, a deep auburn, was pulled back into a messy bun, striking against her pale skin. She wore a sliky emerald cap sleave dress that excentuated the curves of her slim body. Around her neck was a lacy green choker which inlaid a small broach. Her hazel eyes barred into him as if they could see right in into his soul. If it had been another time, he might have taken the bait.

"We both know that's not quite true," she replied, with a small laugh. "But that's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here?" he questioned. John didn't know what it was about this woman, but something felt off.

"If you had one wish John, what would it be?"

"How do you know my name?" She smiled.

"I know a lot of things John, now answer the question."

There was _definitely _something wrong about this woman. John stared down at his pint as she leaned in to whisper in his ear, "You want him back, don't you? What if I told you I knew someone, and all you'd have to do is make a wish?"

John didn't know who this woman was or what her angle was but the offer, he hated to admit, was tempting.

"And if I wanted to make this wish?"

She placed her hand on his and leaned in slightly. "I can tell you're skeptical, so I'll let you think it over. I come here once or twice a month so if you're still interested..." she trailed off absentmindly, twirling a strand hair.

"Right," he awkwardly responded, his eyes trailing up to the man now standing behind her.

"Well as fun as this has been, I must be off. People to see, things to do, all that jazz." She stood and began to walk towards the man but turned back just for a moment.

"Think about it," she said with a wink and disappeared through the door.

John stared at the door the woman had left by. He knew he shouldn't follow her but the curiosity was getting the better of him. He quickly stood up and made his way out of the of the pub. Having no idea where the strange couple might have gone he looked up and down the street but there wasn't a soul in sight. Just as John was about to return inside to his stool and his pint, he heard voices coming from the alleyway. He made his way to opening being careful not to be not to be seen he peered into the darkness.

"Are you sure you can do it?" He heard the man ask.

"Sweetie, I can do anything. How'd you think the D.B. got away? Guys don't just escape of a plane like that on a regular basis. You can't do that kinda thing without my kind of help."

"That was you?" he sounded impressed.

"Like I said, I can do anything. I just need a wish."

John could only imagine the catlike grin on the woman's face as he crept close further down the alley toward the pair's shadowy silhouettes.

"So do we have a deal?" she practically purred.

"Indeed we do."

"Perfect." Her response was almost gleeful.

The woman leaned in and kissed the man, almost a little too enthusiastically in his opinion. John didn't know what was going on and quite frankly, he didn't like it and yet he stood there transfixed. She broke the embrace and the man started to walk back up the alleyway when she called to him.

"See you in ten years sweetheart, enjoy your new relationship."

John quickly hid in an alcove as the man emerged from the alleyway and proceeded down the street. When the man was a safe distance away, he peered back down the darkened corridor. The woman was gone. He walked all the way down the alley. Maybe she left from the other side?

"No," he thought. She couldn't have. It was a blind alleyway... but where the hell could she have gone? It was almost was like she disappeared into thin air, but that was rediculous. After a few minutes of searching, John gave up, returning to the pub, not noticing the steely blue eyes that had been watching him. A man stepped out of the shadows across the street. Sherlock Holmes frowned; he never expected them to go after John. This complicated things.


	2. A Deal is Struck

Sherlock quickly started down the street pulling his phone from his pocket.

They're after John. -SH

Are you positive? And how, if any is this any concern of mine? -MH

It was your man that was supposed to be watching him. -SH

I'm sure I can think of someone you can contact. -MH

Do. And Mycroft, do stop dictating texts to your assistant. It is completely unnecessary. -SH

One would think that being dead would be easy, but it was far from the case. Had this been any sort of normal circumstances, he would have been able to use his anonymity to clean up Moriarty's "web of crime". This was precisely what he was trying to do. That is, until he was informed of something he never would have imagined. Moriarty had made a deal with a crossroads demon but what exactly that deal entailed he didn't know. At first, he scoffed at such an idea. He was hardly one to believe in the supernatural, especially after Baskerville. Evidence, however, pointed to the contrary.

It had begun with a few of his contacts in the homeless network. A few saying there were strange goings on with people kissing in back allies and under bridges. What caught his attention though was one of the network's older members. She remembered a young man who looked very much like Moriarty (albeit years younger) with a tall, slender shorthaired woman. Not much to go on, there were thousands of women that fit that description. He'd have to find a different approach. From what he could tell, there was demon lore in every culture and in particular the trading of souls for some sort of benefit. He thought they were just stories though, after all, they had no factual evidence.

It was not long after that he was tipped off about a pub, the very pub that John had been visiting that night. Every so often, people would meet with some sort of wild success, a best selling novel, a winner of a sweepstakes. However, if records indicated correctly, in exactly ten years to the day, each of these lucky people would meet a rather unfortunate end, mauled by a beast that seemed to disregard locked doors, windows, elevators… still hardly believable. That was until he heard about a man whose debt was supposedly coming due. He had gotten to the man's flat in just enough time to be mauled by a seemingly invisible force. The door had been locked from the inside, the windows bolted. The one window that had been smashed had a two-story drop. Anything that attacked the man couldn't have gotten that far. The more he found, the more it proved the theory, the move it proved, the more he didn't like it. He finally had to admit that there was something going on beyond his control. That had led him to tonight's events. He was no closer to figuring out the deal that Moriarty had made, and now John had been dragged into it.

Suddenly a text alert pulled him from his thoughts.

Still dealing with your demon problem? -MH

Don't you have a government to be running? -SH

Winchesters. They are "specialists" in this field. -MH

Do try to behave, they're not the… usual type of people you deal with. I'll send you the details. -MH

Whenever do I not? Enjoy the cake, Mycroft -SH

* * *

_At a motel somewhere in Iowa_

Sam and Dean were sleeping soundly. They had just finished a job involving a particular nasty sprit who took pleasure in hanging people in the rafters. All of a sudden, a cell phone cut through the stillness.

"Hello," Dean answered rather groggily.

"Dean Winchester?" inquired the voice.

"Yeah, what the hell do you want, it's freaking 2:30 in the morning"

"What do you know about demons?" the voice asked again.

"Why do you want to know?" Dean was growing more annoyed.

"You've been recommended."

"Yeah, well, that's nice, but I don't really like talking to mysterious voices on the other side of the phone so now who the hell are you." By this point, Dean was shouting into the phone.

"Sherlock Holmes. I believe that you've had the misfortune of meeting my brother Mycroft."

"Well dressed Douchebag with an umbrella? Yeah, we met him." Dean paused. "You say something about demons."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. I'm inclined to believe that one is trying to make a deal with… a friend of mine."

"Son of a bitch…" Dean muttered "And you want to try to stop him?"

"No. I wanted to make sure it happened. Yes, I want to stop it." Sherlock was exasperated. Leave it to his brother to recommend two idiot Americans whose life consisted of shooting first thinking later.

"Well, what'd you got so far?"

Sherlock explained what he had learned, what he saw, all of course in the simplest terms possible. He didn't really feel like repeating himself.

"To be honest dude, you don't have much."

"Pardon?"

"Yeah, I mean do you even know who to go after at this point? Or how to even summon a demon…" Dean almost sounded smug.

Sherlock paused "Winchester, I didn't call so that I could be chided by a flannel wearing dropout. Can you help me or not?"

"Look, this is what you want to do, there's this chick, name's Moyra, real bitch, but she's probably your best bet."

They continued the conversation for about an hour. Though he had a general plan, he needed more information about who he was dealing with, Sherlock was never one for going in blindly.

* * *

The Holmes mansion began to fade into the distance as Sherlock trudged further into the woods. He needed somewhere secluded, where there would be no interruptions, and somewhere he was familiar with, as to avoid any unwanted surprises. Where he was headed to now suited both requirements. He discovered a small set of ruins, probably an early Roman settlement while exploring the woods when he was a boy. He placed a bag on one of the stone slabs and began procuring the required ingredients. When everything seemed in order, he lit a match and dropped it. As the contents flamed, he couldn't help but wonder if he was being lead on.

"The famous Sherlock Holmes... not as dead as the world would seem to believe."

A woman sat perched on one of the old ruins. The woman was from what Sherlock could tell in her mid-thirties, tall and sender, and her dark brown hair was styled into a spiky pixie cut. She wore a black vest over a white blouse, her dark wash skinny jeans tucked into knee-high high-heeled boots. She smiled down at him, swinging her feet back and forth.

"And you. You're a hard woman to find, Moyra" he countered. "Or should I be calling you Anne?"

Moyra's face remained still, but her eyes betrayed first her shock and then her concern. She disappeared from her sitting place to reappear in front of Sherlock.

"You really shouldn't have taken your maid's name, or rather a derivative of it. You almost made it too easy." Sherlock almost sounded bored.

Moyra shrugged. "What can I say? I was rather attached to the girl." She stepped closer. "Now I doubt you called me to discuss the finer points of my personal history."

"Of course not, I would have preferred to talk to your superior." He looked her up and down, as if measuring her capabilities.

"Yes well he has bigger problems at the moment, as you can imagine, being King of Hell is hardly a walk in the park," she replied simply.

Sherlock was getting impatient. He was never one for small talk. It was a pointless exercise. He suspected Moyra knew this and was using it to her advantage. Not that he could deduce much about her. That was the problem with demons, wearing another's skin did allow them somewhat of a mask but not entirely. She had renamed herself after her maid, clearly a sign of sentiment. Something that he could use against her if need be. It had worked against Irene Adler. He saw no reason how it might not work against Moyra. She was also well- dressed, and the way she held herself was clearly evident of her... a clearing of the throat interrupted his thought process.

"Difficult isn't it? Deducing me?"

"But not impossible," he replied quickly.

"Whatever you say sweetie, now about your dear doctor. I don't really have a way to stop it."

"I'm not dead though, there's no deal to be made not without dishonesty on your part, and I'm sure your _employer _would be very disappointed if the rules were broken." Sherlock wanted to see if he could make her concede before he did anything drastic.

"It may be true that you're not dead, but you see with a well worded deal that would hardly be a problem. Say if John said he wanted you back. We'd simply have to bring you back. Whether that would be back from the dead or back into his life is..." She waved her hand through the air, "minor details."

Sherlock knew that his choices were limited, but he did not want John to make a deal. It was his fault really anyway, and John had suffered enough as it was. "My soul then," he said slowly. "My soul for John's."

She laughed. "How noble of you... and here people didn't think you had a heart, at least that's what Jim told me." She smiled sweetly. Almost too sweetly he thought.

"Jim?"

"Yes. He sends his regards, he's a little… indisposed at the moment" she chuckled as if enjoying a personal joke.

Seeing concern in Sherlock's eyes she clarified.

"Don't worry he won't be getting anywhere fast, he unfortunately broke contract but back to you and your little dilemma."

As much as I would love to have your soul in ten years' time, I'm afraid I can't offer you quite the same deal I do everyone else."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're a clever boy, and quite frankly you've been playing on the side of the angels for far too long. I have no doubt you'd find someway to find a loophole in our agreement. Trust me, the King of Hell really wants you on our team."

She paused in front of him.

"Therefore I am offering you this deal instead. We will get your soul eventually when you die, whenever that may be. Though in your line of work I imagine it to be sooner rather than later." She paused. "Until then, you play by our rules. If we bring you a case you solve it, if we tell you to drop a case you will drop it no questions asked."

"And if I don't… play by the rules?"

"You drop dead," she said, "No second chances, no deals made in your name. "How long exactly do you imagine your dear doctor would last?"

Sherlock was positively fuming.  
"But don't worry, I'm sure he'd be joining you eventually, suicide after all, is generally frowned upon by our fine feathered friends upstairs."

"And don't think you can get him out of his deal if you decide to turn me down. I hear one whisper of trouble from you, and I collect my due." She whispered dangerously. "So what will it be?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. Taking the deal now seemed like the best option, it gave both him and John the most time to try and get them out of this mess. He frowned. This was his entire fault really… he should have kept a better eye on John. He didn't imagine they'd go after him not while John thought he was dead. Sentiment, it was his damn sentiment that got him into this and now he was paying the price.

His eyes snapped open.

"We have a deal."

"Wonderful." She leaned in and Sherlock stepped back. "Now's not the time to be squeamish, sweetheart, this deal won't seal itself."

She stepped in once again closing the distance between them enjoying the pure hatred that radiated from the man in her embrace.

He broke away, glowering.

"Now, now, don't look so glum, you just saved your best friend. However, if I were you I'd get a move on, don't want him thinking you're dead for too much longer."

"And your people?"

"Won't touch your precious doctor."

Sherlock promptly turned and started walking away.

""Pleasure doing business with you!" Moyra called.


	3. Not All is What it Seems

Leaving the pub much later that evening, John was still horribly confused as to what exactly had transpired. He still had no idea who that woman was, why she knew him, or what the hell she thought she was doing. He honestly wouldn't have been surprised if it had been one of Mycroft's people. In fact, given the presumed evidence, He thought it almost had to be, and he would most assuredly be visiting Mycroft in the morning.

* * *

The next morning he made his way to the Diogenes Club where he found Mycroft reading the paper in his private room. John cleared his throat, but the elder Holmes brother didn't even bother looking up.

"So do you have nothing better to do with your time than spy on people?"

"I have no idea what you mean, John," Mycroft stated blandly, turning a page.

"You've been following me, for God knows what reason. I ran into one of yours at the pub last night. So you better explain what the _hell_…"

Mycroft interrupted him, "The woman you conversed with at the bar wasn't one of mine."

"What?"

"The man that was with her was the one that was supposed to be watching you. Unfortunately he has been… compromised." Mycroft said the last word with distain.

"I don't understand," John said, sitting down, his frustrations subsiding to a slight nudge of curiosity. If she wasn't one of his, then what was she?

Mycroft sighed, folded his paper and set it on the side table. "I told you that when you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. However, what you see is only part of the war." He paused, as if not knowing how to proceed, "There is another war going on, one that many are not aware of, at least not fully. Not only in London but across the world itself, extending out to what is know as Heaven and Hell. The woman you met in the pub is a demon. A crossroads demon if you prefer."

John looked at Mycroft incredulously. Mycroft wasn't surprised John didn't believe him.

"I wouldn't have believed it myself until recently," John said, grimacing slightly. He had the pleasure, or perhaps one might say the misfortune, of meeting a demon named Crowley, self-proclaimed King of Hell. Crowley apparently felt the need to introduce himself to various "governments" should his services ever be needed. Mycroft had of course declined.

"So what do we do about these… demons?"

"You, Dr. Watson, do nothing. You will go about your life as you have and you will not contact that woman again."

"But-"

"Good day, Doctor." Mycroft once again picked up the paper, indicating that this was the end of the conversation.

John stood with a huff, and stormed out of the club, making sure to make more noise than necessary. If Mycroft wouldn't help him, he'd just have to find out himself. The library seemed the best bet. He didn't really feel like sifting through the crackpots online.

* * *

The next day, John found himself in the library at a table stacked high with books on religion, the supernatural, and the occult. So far he hadn't found much specific information or of much use to him. Demons he learned were considered the burnt out shells of humanity, and they needed to process a body. Living or dead, it didn't really seem to matter.

Holy water and salt could be used to combat them as could iron (though John didn't really understand the latter). The process continued for a few days, and John was starting to worry that he might not find out anything beyond just general information, which may or may not be true.

That is until he picked up a book that he swore wasn't there before. The cover had what appeared to be two intersecting arrows facing different directions so that they appeared almost star shaped. Picking it up and paging through it, he found to his surprise that it was a journal. Every page was covered in text, news articles, and elegant drawings of nightmarish creatures. John was even more surprised to find that one page in particular had been bookmarked.

_Crossroads Demons_

_The crossroads demon shares many of the characteristics and weaknesses of other demons. However, they seem to be a different tier of demon as their eyes are not the traditional black that __one typically encounters__. It is unsure as to where exactly they fall in the pyramid of control. The crossroads demon also seems to specialize in the exchanging of souls for human desires or wishes. A deal is made when a human and the crossroads demon come to an agreement upon the terms and is then traditionally sealed with a kiss. The contracted human then has 10 years until their soul is collected…_

John skipped the next paragraph. He wasn't particularly in the mood to learn what happened to those whose contract came due. He began the next paragraph.

_A crossroads demon can be summoned by a simple ritual. Those wishing to make a deal must gather a number of ingredients: __graveyard dirt, a black cat bone, yarrow and something in the image of the individual making the deal, such as a photograph. These items must then be placed into a container and buried in the center of the crossroads. However, it has been noted that crossroads demons do not necessarily need to be summoned. There have been a number of instances that they have specific locations they may frequent, quite often places where deals can be made easily. _

John frowned as he read the last sentence. A pub would indeed be the perfect place for a crossroad demon to pick up potential clients… and she did say she could grant his wish. His eyes trailed downward to the bottom of the page where a pair of expertly drawn red eyes stared back at him. A slight shiver ran down his spine and he felt as if he was being watched. Quickly he shut the book and shoved it away from him across the table. It was at that point, for the good of his sanity that John decided to take a quick walk to maybe try and clear his head. When he returned to the table, however, the book was gone. He started to shift books to see if he had just misplaced it but to no avail. As he slumped down in his chair, John could have sworn he heard a slight noise, like the ruffling of feathers. John shook his head he had obviously had been at the books for too long.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, John did more research online, now that he knew what he was looking for. From what he could tell, there were pubs and cafes all across London where somehow people would come into a lucky streak of some kind. He also found a few accounts of people mysteriously mauled to death ten years after their deal. The more he read, the more he wanted to confront the woman from the pub. But something was holding him back. As curious as he was, there was something almost instinctive holding him back.

Eventually he found himself in the same bar, even the same stool he had been in 3 months earlier. He heard someone sit on the stool next to him and he turned to face the red-head.

"Hello, John."

"I know what you are."

"Strait to the point, aren't we?" She smiled as her eyes flashed red for a moment. John tried his hardest not to gasp. "Always pegged you for a clever boy."

"So this is what you do? Con people's souls for ten years of happiness before they get ripped to shreds?"

She mocked offense. "Must you be so cynical, John? I give people ten years with things that would never been able to have again in a lifetime." She paused. Your offer still stands though, even if you might be cynical about it."

"Yeah, I don't think so" John stood and began to walk away.

"Three months," she called. John turned back to stare at her. "Three months and you'll be back if not sooner.

* * *

John kept looking at the door to the pub. She had to be here tonight. She just had to. He hated himself in that moment, he truly did. But with the way the last three months had gone, he decided that selling his soul might not be the worst thing in the world. In a way he could almost laugh at the way things had turned out, if things went his way he'd be making this deal a year to the day that Sherlock jumped.

The door opened for about the tenth time since he had sat down. John spied the familiar red-headed woman enter the pub. She must have not seen John as she quickly took a seat at a table near the door. He stood and made his way over to her table.

"So about this deal…"

The girl looked up at him. "Crap. You can't be here… I can't be here." She stood and bolted out the door.

John stood for a moment, confused, before snapping to attention and quickly following her out the door and on to the street. She was so eager before, why the hell was she running now? By this point John had caught up to her.

"Why can't you?"

"I just can't."

John reached forward, grabbing her wrist. In an instant she turned ripping her hand away from him.

"I can't because you've been blacklisted."

"Blacklisted?"

"No one's allowed to deal to you. Fuck, if they even knew I was talking to you like this." She started to back away. "They're going to flay me... he'll want to throw me back... oh no, no, no, no..." She continued to back away until she ran into a tall brunette woman behind her.

"Thank you, Olivia. That will be enough"

"Ms. Moyra, I didn't mean, I mean, I was trying to tell him..."

Moyra held a finger to the girl's lips and smiled slightly. "Ollie, I can take it from here. Calm down, go some where and get yourself something to drink," she took her finger off Ollie's lips. "Take the night off."

The girl frantically nodded and disappeared. Moyra laughed softly before turning to John.

"She's right you know, no one's allowed to offer you a deal."

"Why the hell not?" John was becoming frustrated. He didn't like the idea that he might have been led on. If they couldn't bring Sherlock back, they might as well say it. It was too painful otherwise.

"Because I said so."

"And who the hell are you to say so."

"You might call me the manager of crossroads deals. Fairly sure the King of Hell would have me skinned if I was vain enough to attempt to claim his old title." She smiled as if enjoying a personal joke. "Anyway, not that it would do you any good. You, my dear doctor, have been beaten to the punch."

John sputtered slightly trying to understand what she meant. "What do you mean 'beaten to the punch'?"

"It is no longer necessary that you make a deal for Sherlock's life."

"Why not?" John asked suspiciously. There was definitely something he didn't like about this woman. In a way, she almost reminded him of Mycroft, somehow knowing almost everything, yet divulging little all in the most annoying way possible. He decided they'd make good friends.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" She replied, as his phone rang.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. -SH_

_If inconvenient come anyway. -SH_

John looked back up from his phone and the woman was gone.


	4. A New Piece on the Board

Moyra reappeared in a rather lavish study. A large dark wood desk stood on one side of the study, the rest of the walls for the most part were lined with bookshelves save for across the room where a large gothic fireplace held a roaring fire.

"How'd it go, love?"

Crowley stood in front of a liquor cabinet behind the desk pouring himself a glass of scotch.

"He'll behave for now. I do rather expect he'll try to find some way out of it. If the brothers Winchesters got Bobby out of his deal..."

"Don't remind me," Crowley growled turning, "this is a risky investment, Moyra, it can't be buggered up. The Winchesters are enough to deal with, no need to add another to the long list of problems no matter how important he is."

She leaned against the desk. "Winchesters are your problem, dear. Not mine. Leave the detective and his precious pet doctor to me."

"Speaking pets, your darling Olivia almost spoilt the whole thing. Perhaps she needs to be re-educated on what the proper procedures are," said Crowley, his voice heavy with suggestion. It wouldn't have been the first time that Olivia would be tossed back into Hell. Nor did she guess it would be the last.

"No, Crowley. Ollie was trying her best. John just can't take no for an answer, even more so when it comes to his detective."

"You sure it's not the fact she's your newest pet. Because I think that's what's clouding your judgment, love" he sipped his scotch.

"She's also very good in sales, particularly young men." She paused. "She's very eager... just a bit naïve."

"Like I said, little too attached to your pets, love."

"Least mine are basically human," she muttered.

"What was that, Moyra? Please by all means share with the class." He was clearly growing irritated.

"At least I don't have a unnatural obsession with my hellhound."

Crowley looked mildly offended but responding quickly "I haven't the foggiest idea of what you're talking about dear."

"For the love of Hell... you named it Growley! You preen him pamper him spoil him rotten."

"And you don't do that with your pet? Because I know you do, love. I just don't understand why it has to be with," he waved his hand around trying as if trying to find the words, "that ilk."

She chuckled walking across the room to stand in front of Crowley and began playing with his tie.

"Awww, is someone jealous?" she murmured.

"Just concerned."

"Mhmm."

"However, despite your pet's shortfalls, I think that celebration is in order. It's not everyday one gets to bag the world's only consulting detective."

Crowley leaned in closer.

"You're welcome to join me, darling." He smirked and disappeared.

Moyra rolled her eyes. He always had to be a show off, didn't he? Though in a way she couldn't blame him, it was rather something to celebrate. Personally, Moyra was proud of herself on how this particular deal was done. John Watson was never in any danger, not really anyway.

Moyra just needed a way to get Sherlock to come out and play and the plan had gone spectacularly. Crowley didn't think that the man was as important as the Winchesters, but she would have to disagree. Sherlock Holmes was a power piece to have on the board and now he was her's... well her and Crowley's. She smiled to herself as she vanished from the room. Perhaps a little celebration wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

_Author's note: Hello All! Sorry it took so long to get this bit up but my professors have been loading on the homework. Anyway, this is the end of this short story. It was going to be a one-shot but kinda got expanded. This is now going to be a prequel to the larger story, A Devil's Work, in which Sherlock and Watson juggle casework, Moyra's "odd" jobs, and trying to bring down her and Crowley if possible. Thank you for all who have read, followed, favorited and reviewed. It means a lot to me, never having done this before. I hope you all enjoyed A Deal for a Deal. _


End file.
